Sunburn
by hongkongstar
Summary: I got one foot in the gate of hell. Crossover AU, Dark Windows verse: Final Fantasy, Halo, Pitch Black, Farscape. XigbarDemyx


**This comes with a soundtrack - available on my writing journal (listed as homepage)**

* * *

It didn't start out in a bar. It started in the cockpit of Xigbar's old eaststyle glider, heavy on the thrust and artillery but still fucking smooth when it came to atmo, floating solo in the orbit of a skinny rock planet. It started with Xigbar cruising the Stream for the latest heads and heaviest figures.

But he doesn't tell the kid that. The kid thinks it started in a bar, thinks that Xigbar just got lucky, and someplace down the line that might lend a bit of weight Xigbar's way, so he doesn't say nothing to be dissuading him.

Now really, Xigbar's first look at the kid is a sketchy output display of his mugshot, the usual fullbody rotating model with the facial shots nice and highdef, up close and tight. Skinny bit of station trash, grew up in the midzone pushing chemicals and turning the occasional trick. Sort of shit that don't get no one's knickers in a knot out near the Dead Territories, but you get closer to terra firma, to the homeland, and you're closer to government backed Nebari breathing down your neck so hot the white might catch. And if there's anything the Nebari hate enough to actually make a big ol' mess about, it's getting high and fucking for fun.

Xigbar don't really care 'bout any of that. He cares 'bout getting some creds in his pocket, and this skinny runt from the midzone's been places and knows faces, and got himself a nice little high-priced spot on the head list, fresh and shiny from his third escape, clean out of Red King's Knot. And if that weren't enough to perk Xigbar's interest, them pretty blue eyes might just have sealed the deal.

Now the first time Demyx saw Xigbar, _that_ was in a bar. Not a decent one. Just a little skanky corner in a dusty station hanging somewhere between midzone and Earth space. And that suited Xigbar just fine – he was used to getting in the Nebari's faces, and he'd had one encounter with the Grue enough to learn that there was some shit you just didn't let happen a second time, 'specially when you're down to only one of whatever they might wanna be eating.

Really, though, he hadn't meant to be speaking to the kid that day. He'd been following, watching, planning, because Demyx'd been to some nasty shithole places and got out with his face and his bones intact, and if that said anything it said he wasn't gonna be an easy one to pin. So he'd been taking it slow and easy, smooth like, but then he sits down at this bar and orders himself a tall glass of something strong and when he looks up from paying, there's those big baby blues again, this time locked on him from all the way over in the smoky little corner the kid's been pushing some pretty nice pure northstyle stym in for the past hour.

And then the kid, he's looking at Xigbar and Xigbar's looking at him, and the kid fucking _smiles_.

Now Xigbar ain't too used to folk smiling at him, big ol' ugly mug like his. So yeah, he gets thrown for a loop for a second or two, maybe three, and by then the smoke's got thicker or the people moved, because Demyx ain't where he left him, and instead is sliding his scrawny arse up on the stool next to old Xigbar himself.

"You're a fearsome lookin' one," he says, plain up straight and sweet, and he might've been born midzone but his accent's southspace, sure as Grue eat babies. "Name's Luce. You thinkin' I could maybe be of assistance, way you were eyeballin' me?"

He smiles again, and Xigbar, well, he taps his fingers against his glass a little and then he smiles right back. "I d'know toots, what're you offering?"

"Well, I just don't know, see," and his hand just kinda flops for a second before he props his head up on one arm, starts pushing old nut shells around on the bar. "Way you came in here I'd say you're lookin' for my usual sorta wares, but really, either you got lazy eye or it ain't chem you're lookin' to me for."

Now Xigbar's never been one to look a gift horse in the mouth, and here's his head just about ready to let him lead him away to some dark little corner with no questions asked, so he figures he's into some seriously easy creds here. So he takes a sip of his tall glass of something strong, and that gives Demyx enough time to slip himself up close and hot, arms sliding smooth 'round Xigbar's neck, lips brushing the band of his eyepatch where it cuts the skin above his ear.

"Come on stranger, don't be shy," he purrs, nice practiced drawl, easy like the feel of a trigger under Xigbar's finger. It goes through him like stym, like that hot pure shit the kid's got tucked down the back of his shirt, and Xigbar thinks _aw, hell no. _Thinks,_ nice easy bust and I've gotta get all crazy on it. _

Thinks,_ I'm way too old for this shit_.

But still, he opens his big stupid mouth and he says, "You sure you're a Luce, toots? You don't look like a Luce to me."

And it don't take long for the light to click in Demyx's eyes, don't take no time at all, like maybe it didn't turn off, like maybe Demyx had it figured from the moment he came into the bar, but now, now he don't have nothing figured at all.

He's out the back so quick the smoke don't even move. But Xigbar saw the look on his face, the little frown bunching up between his eyebrows, and maybe Xigbar's too old for this shit but that don't mean he's not gonna enjoy it. It's been too fucking long since he had a decent hunt, had a head he really wanted to sink his teeth into, blood pumping 'round his system so hard he might as well've had a dose of that stym the kid was packing. He sits, and he drinks his chilly glass of engine cleaner, but that don't wash away the metal taste on his tongue, tough and acidic.

But it didn't start there, see.

* * *

Now Xigbar don't go running after him straight away. He gives the kid time enough to get out to whatever he thinks is a comfy distance, gives him time to settle in and maybe time to get all complacent like. So he takes a month or two, cruising the midzone and hunting out smaller marks, getting a few creds here and there, before he even thinks about heading after Demyx again.

And then he's gotta call in a few favours, 'cause the kid knows his face now, and he ain't fool enough to think that any amount of time's gonna be changing that, memorable features like his. So he calls up some old friends and he slips a few creds a few people's way, and a week after tracking the kid down he's got him unconscious and chained up, sweet as a package from Santa.

He's kinda slow in coming to, but Xigbar weren't expecting any better, what with the amount of tranq pumped into him and the nasty crack over the back of the head when he didn't go down quick enough.

"Oh," he says, bleary eyed and grinning. "Well hello again, stranger."

Xigbar holds a cup of water to his mouth, lets him take a long drink. "Hello to you too."

The kid lies back after draining damn near the whole cup, and Xigbar makes a mental note to look into where he's getting his tranq shots from, even though the kid seems to have recovered quickly enough.

"Damn, see, I knew that weed deal was too good to be true," he says, laughs quietly at himself. "Which one was it, the botanist or the friendly lookin' wall o' muscle w' the dreads?"

"The latter. Friend of mine from way back, owed me a few."

"Only a few? Well that just hurts my feelin's."

"Naw," Xigbar grins. "You're only worth one. He's not getting off that light."

"Really now," Demyx says, one eyebrow raised slightly. He shifts around a bit on the bunk, the wide neck of sweater he's wearing slipping down and revealing the curve of his collarbone. "I know for a fact I'm higher up the list than that," he says. "Or does he just not know your game?"

"I've got my business," Xigbar shrugs. "He's got his."

"And I'm your business," the kid's eyes are sharp, sharper than Xigbar really expected them to be.

"That you are," he says.

"That why I'm chained to your bunk? Business?" He smiles again, twists his hands in the chains, making them clank against the frame of the bunk. Xigbar watches as they settle again, still locked up tight.

"It's a long ride to Gravedigger's Skull," he says. "Thought y'might wanna be comfortable."

"Now then," the kid grins. "Don't be shy. I know you're sweet on me."

Xigbar laughs. "Gangly bit of station trash like you? I could use you as a toothpick."

"I feel better than I look. An' the way your eye's stickin' to me, I think you're just fine w' how I look." His eyes darken there, lids drooping low, and Xigbar looks away.

"That your pitch? Fuck for freedom? You really think I'm gonna pass up nine thou for a chance at your ass?"

"You know what the nebs do to kids like me at Gravedigger's. Consider it a final farewell fuck for a dyin' man."

"They ain't gonna kill you."

"Close as," his tone's gone hard now, showing some of the steel Xigbar knows the kid's gotta be made of under all that cotton candy sweetness to have got this far. "Don't be deludin' yourself, sugar. You take any fucker worth his weight to any prison rock this side of the Dead Territories and he can prove he's got a right to live, same as all the other twisted cats sitting there waitin' for sunlight, but you take 'em to Gravedigger's? There ain't nothin' there for no man. Nothin'." His eyes catch Xigbar's and don't look away, hold him there like a fish out of water. And really, what's the harm?

"I ain't taking the chains off," he says, and Demyx shifts again, smiling.

"I can do kinky."

Xigbar grins back. "I'm sure you can."

The kid is wearing three layers, two shirts that have seen better days, washed out and stretched out and an overlarge dark sweater, mottled with holes and loose threading. Xigbar flicks his switch knife open and Demyx tenses up, but relaxes again when Xigbar starts cutting the fabric off at the seams. With the kid finally naked from the waist up, ruined clothes dumped on the floor, Xigbar gives in and slides a hand across his chest, feeling tight wiry muscle and ribs slightly too close to the surface. Demyx arches his back slightly, pushing up into his hand.

"Mm," he says. "Told you you'd like it."

Xigbar don't reply, just slides his hand down across the flat spread of Demyx's stomach until he reaches his belt, undoing it roughly and yanking the tough denim down and off, leaving the kid completely naked. He pauses for a minute, looking the kid up and down, sprawled out and completely unashamed of his nudity.

"You don't look so skinny with none of that hanging off you," Xigbar murmurs, finally. Demyx laughs.

"Aw shucks, was that a compliment?" he rolls his hips, stretches out, looking at Xigbar with half-lidded eyes. "So, you gonna show me yours?"

Xigbar grins. "Nah, I don't think so," he says, and curves his palm against Demyx's hip. "Turn over."

What's real surprising is that Demyx is all smooth skin, pale and scar free 'cept for the nine brands down his arm. Xigbar weren't expecting that, was expecting whore's scars and junkie's scars, convict's. Nine brands means the kid was trouble, got transferred 'round a lot: Aim's Box, Butcher Bay, Devil's Backbone, two for Widow's Belly, Crematoria, 'nother one for Aim's Box and then Red King's Knot, still a bit sore looking 'round the edges.

"Crematoria, huh?" He runs fingers over the raised ridges of the numbers, and Demyx shifts, the chains clinking. "How was that?"

"Hot as hell," Demyx says, and then he drives his elbow back into Xigbar's face.

* * *

'Course, he wakes up chained to his bunk. Demyx is in the pilot's seat, fiddling with controls, and wearing the same shirts Xigbar was before he got that surprise knock to the head. He pulls at the chains a bit, testing them, but the kid knew what he was doing. Xigbar's locked down tight. He wonders how the fuck he's gonna get out of this one.

"You going somewhere, toots?"

Demyx hits a few more controls and then turns to look at Xigbar over his shoulder.

"Just plannin' out a little trip," he says, smiling. "Sweet ride you got here, by the by." He pats the arm of the pilot's seat, and Xigbar glares, muscles tight. Demyx laughs.

"Aw, don't worry, I ain't gonna take it," he gets up, coming over to the bunk and leaning down, but not close enough that Xigbar could get a decent knock in any-which-way. "Got no use for boats, station trash like me."

His hand comes up to Xigbar's face, one finger sliding under the fabric of the eyepatch and flipping it up, revealing the implant eye Xigbar keeps hidden. "Now this, though, this gotta be worth a pretty penny or two," Demyx says, tapping the skin under the eye gently. Immediately Xigbar's vision on one side is flooded with extra information, targets locking onto various heat sources, everything sharp and tight in focus. Strain spikes through his temples; he hadn't prepared for the use of the eye and the lopsided focus it gives him will make him develop a migraine within the hour, if it goes uncovered. He flinches away from Demyx's quick fingers, but Demyx just laughs. The eye locks a target onto his face, listing his name, age, bounty, all the information Xigbar had loaded into it before. He wishes he could turn it off. "Naw sugar," Demyx says, and flips the eyepatch down again, bathing his vision half in blessed darkness. "I ain't takin' nothin' I didn't come with." He smiles, and Xigbar glares.

"Those're my clothes."

Demyx shrugs. "You cut mine up," he says, opening drawers and rummaging through the things inside like a stray cat looking for meat. "There's stealin' an' there's fair trade."

He opens one drawer and shuffles around for a bit before pulling out Xigbar's full license, the lengthy official one with all his qualifications and stamps, record of how long he's been doing this shit and how far he's gone. Demyx flips it open and lets out an appreciative whistle.

"Xigbar Taylor, platinum class. Nice," he says, eyes skimming over the long pages of detailed information. "'Least I got myself a top class wolf. You up there with Strife?" he tosses the license back in the drawer and wanders back over by the bunk. "I always wanted to meet him, see if all them prison rock tales were true."

"He's retired. Doing rehab work out at the Dead Territories."

"Really now," Demyx says, soundly only vaguely interested. "Dead Territories, huh. Who's he rehabilitatin'?"

"Matuszynski."

Demyx's eyes widen, his head knocking back a little, like he's just been slapped in the face when he weren't expecting it.

"What," Xigbar grins. "You two pals?"

But the kid's caught himself, tight lines already gone from his face. He grins back. "Somethin' like that."

But then he's quiet for a while, staring off into space right at the bare wall between Xigbar's bunk and the storage closet, chewing on his lip. Xigbar rolls his head back, trying to see if there's actually something there that he forgot about, and his arm doesn't like that, cramping up. He shifts awkwardly, the chain clattering as he moves, and that finally pulls Demyx out of whatever world he was floating off in. He looks at him for a moment, more sombre than Xigbar's ever seen him, but then he's smiling again.

"Sorry 'bout pullin' that shit earlier," he says. "It was pretty fuckin' low. But I ain't goin' to Gravedigger's. Not w'out a fight."

Xigbar laughs. "An' I'm sorry for falling for it," he says, and Demyx looks insulted, like he slurred on his acting skills or something. Xigbar snorts. "You're a whore. What would you want a final farewell fuck with the likes of me for? Remind you of the good times?"

"Now see, you'd better get your facts straight fore you start sayin' shit like that," Demyx says, eyes going sharp for a second. "I ain't been a whore since I was sixteen. And I ain't been sixteen for a long time now."

"You were acting fair whorish at that bar, toots."

"Mmm, that was 'cause I liked the looks of you," he's smiling again, sweet as the first time Xigbar saw it. "Place like that I figured it'd be quicker pickin' you up, pullin' out the ol' speel."

"Pick me up," there's no way Xigbar could make his tone any more sceptical. "Right."

Demyx perches himself down on the edge of the bunk, leaning over Xigbar. "Aw, what's wrong sugar?" he says. "You don't believe me? I ain't lyin' to you."

"You pinned me for a hunter the second I walked in that door."

"Maybe," he says, leaning closer. "Maybe I liked that, too." He presses his face to Xigbar's neck, hand sliding down across his chest and stomach. Xigbar's breathing hitches.

"What're you doing?" he says, but it catches somewhere in his throat as Demyx's fingers find one of the thicker scars over his side, tracing its shape slowly. He can feel the kid's smile against his shoulder, his breath sliding hot over Xigbar's skin as he talks.

"Well, see," he says. "I hit you in the face, took your clothes an' I'm takin' your bounty when I leave, so's I figure maybe you'd like some repayment. Fair like."

He slides up to sit again, both hands leaving Xigbar's skin as he shifts down and tugs Xigbar's boots off, dumping them on the floor with a dull thud.

"Fair," Xigbar murmurs, and Demyx looks at him over his shoulder, smiling still, eyes dark in the shadow of the bunk.

"Fair," he echoes.

He peels off the layers of Xigbar's shirts that he's wearing, muscles moving smoothly as all that skin's bared again. Then he's shucked the pants as well, climbing over Xigbar, chest to chest, face pressed into his neck again.

"I'll admit it," he murmurs, and his hips are rolling already, grinding down against Xigbar and making him arch, making his breath come short. "I'm feelin' pretty sweet on you." Xigbar can feel that smile again, and one of Demyx's hands is snaking down between them, rubbing at Xigbar through his pants before undoing his belt and popping the button. He sits up to better tug them down Xigbar's thighs, and then he's looking up, smiling sweet and palming Xigbar's cock. "Hope you won't be mindin' too much."

Xigbar doesn't have nothing in mind to be objecting, nothing in mind at all.

The kid fair tries to grind himself into Xigbar's skin at the beginning, body writhing over Xigbar's, cocks trapped slick between them both as he thrusts down hard and messy, mouths at the various scars marring Xigbar's torso. Somewhere along the way it's not enough for him though, and then he's lifting himself off and rasping something out about Xigbar telling him where the fuck he keeps his lube, lotion, machine oil, _whatever_. Xigbar manages to get his brain back in order to direct him to the right drawer and then he's back, smooth limbs and sweat-sheened skin, eyes closed and lips parted as he stretches himself, back arching and chest heaving, all laid out above Xigbar like a private show, like the best fucking wet dream he's ever had.

The actual fucking is short, couldn't not be, what with the build up, but it tightens down intense around them, like there's nothing but Xigbar's hands pulling and twisting in the chains, Demyx's thighs tautening and straining as he rides him, Xigbar's chest moving heavy and hard, Demyx's mouth leaving bruises on his throat, fingers leaving scratches on his stomach. Demyx comes quiet, surprisingly, face still pressed tight into Xigbar's neck, the only signs of it the quick jerky way his hips are rolling back, the way his hands have finally stopped moving, digging down hard around Xigbar's wrists, the wet heat splattering across Xigbar's stomach and chest.

He only takes a moment, and then he's picking up the pace again, mouthing encouragements in Xigbar's ear until he gives it up and lets go, coming hard and deep inside the kid.

He's only just getting his breath back when there's the press of a needle in his arm, the hiss of a medgun. "Wha--" he gets out, but then Demyx is saying "Bye sugar," right against his mouth, and he's got time to think that's just plain unfair before he passes out.

Of course, he wakes up unchained, ship docked at some station he's never been to before. The bruises and scratches are livid on his skin, but the kid's long gone.

* * *

He don't wait this time. He goes straight after the kid, but maybe the kid was expecting that, 'cause he can't find hide nor hair of him. He spends two months flying one end of the midzone to the other, but can't find nothing, not a peep. Now there's no way the kid's getting into Earth space, one month quarantine and enough datawork between there and everywhere else to hold back any disreputable kinds, 'less they've come into some serious heavy creds, so there's only one way the kid could've gone, and Xigbar's full hating himself and his big stupid mouth soon as it comes down to it, 'cause he may as well of painted a huge fucking arrow out for him.

It takes him one long month to get to the Dead Territories, and another few weeks chasing whispers 'round before he finds himself walking into a noodle bar on yet another smoggy, scuzzy station. But with all the steam and dirty smoke drifting around, it's fair impossible to miss the head of clean blond hair he's looking for.

"You Strife?" Blue eyes flash up at him, glowing crazy as a datascreen error, but the blond don't bother to stop eating, just talks between mouthfuls.

"Depends who's asking." His companion hasn't looked up at all, dark hood drawn up over his features, just his lower face visible as he eats his noodles. He's small, but Xigbar's smart enough to see the muscle hidden under the layers of dark clothes he's wearing.

Interesting, but not what he came for. He turns back to Strife. "Name's Xigbar," he says, flashing his badge. "I was wondering if--" but then Strife cuts him off, eyes narrowed.

"I'm retired. Go find someone else to tag team with."

Xigbar grins. "Nah, see, I'm not real interested in you," he says. "I'm interested in Matuszynski."

Strife's companion pauses at that, noodles halfway to his mouth. Strife shoots a quick glare his way, and he carries on eating.

"Really," Strife says, looking intently at his food. "What are you interested in him for?"

"I'm wondering if he happens to know a scrawny scrap of midzone station trash that might've floated through here a few weeks back, name o' Demyx Walker."

The corner of Strife's mouth twitches up, and he taps his chopsticks against the edge of his bowl. "If this Demyx Walker is a 'scrap of midzone station trash', then what are you doing all the way out here on the cold side of hell looking for him?"

Xigbar huffs, smiles slightly. "Bit of a personal grievance, to tell the truth."

The smaller guy finally picks his time to talk, jumping in just as Strife's mouth opens. "We might have seen him," he says, voice quiet but steady, devoid of inflection. He turns to face Xigbar, food forgotten, and lowers his hood to reveal practically a mini-me of Strife, blond spikes and pretty face. But his _eyes_-- his eyes are black as fucking pitch, through and through. "He might have been here, six days ago," he says, ignoring Xigbar's slight hitch of shock. "But he's not here anymore."

Xigbar pauses for a minute, trying to suss the kid out. Strife's no help, back to poking his chopsticks through his noodles, so he just sucks it up and turns back to those creepy-as-fuck eyes. "Any idea where he was heading?"

The kid's mouth opens, but then snaps closed, twisting. He turns away, back to his noodles, frowning like something's paining him all of a sudden. With the hood down, Xigbar can see the gleam of metal braced across the back of his neck, gnarled scar tissue framing it. Whole bunch of fucked up, these Dead Territories folk.

Strife glares up at the kid. "Axel, tell the man what he wants to fucking know."

Xigbar starts at that, 'cause he's seen pictures of Matuszynski, and this kid ain't him. "Matuszynski don't look nothing--" he starts, but Strife cuts him off again, irritable fucker.

"No, _he's_ not Axel," he says, like that means something, but then he's pointing two fingers clear at the kid's eyes, still black, pitch like there ain't no light that could ever cut them. "But _that_ is." The kid flinches away, and Strife sighs like an exasperated parent. "Axel, give him something or you're cleaning out the cargo stows with your tongue."

The kid just carries on frowning at his noodles for a full minute, face twitching like he's about to have a fit, and then he turns back to Xigbar, so sharp-sudden that Xigbar's hand almost goes for his pistol.

"Dem likes to party," he says, and then he grins, wide and tight like a predator. It doesn't fit his face, is way too sharp, stretched out and goddamn fucking _terrifying_. "You find the party, you find Dem."

He's looking right at Xigbar, still grinning, and the black fades right out of his eyes like smoke, leaving them big and blue, pretty as you please. That grin leaves his face like it just dropped off, and he looks away, looks at Strife. "He's shut me out," he says, and then he goes back to eating his noodles like nothing happened.

Strife looks at Xigbar, eyes narrowed and dark navy blue. "He's in a snit now," he says. "So that's all you're gonna get. Good luck with your grievances." He turns back to his own food, and Xigbar knows when he's done.

He don't wait around.

* * *

The folk in the Dead Territories are a suspicious, close-mouthed bunch. He asks around for a full couple of days before one finally cracks, but he looks more bored than intimidated. He tells Xigbar there's a festival going on a day's cruise away. If he's looking for a real party, that's the best he's gonna get this far out.

Turns out a festival is a congregation of several stations, all hooked up together, orbiting a small sand planet. It's busy, packed more full of people than all the other stations Xigbar's been on since he found himself up this end of the 'verse. During the day it's just food and wares, streets packed with merchants selling everything from gleaming metal implants to strangely ornate weapons supposedly carved from Grue bones. Xigbar wasn't aware that is was possible to manage actually to kill a Grue, let alone use the opportunity to salvage the carcass instead of running the hell away, but apparently there's a pair of creepy freaks floating around out here that can get the job done in a scarily efficient manner. While it's nice to know someone's taking back some of the food chain, he don't think he ever wants to run into whatever's strong enough to clear out Grue infestations in bulk.

In the evening the streets quiet down a bit, the desperate bustle of the day slipping down to the usual distrustful melancholy that seems to permeate the air here. Parties pop up here and there, but he hears the biggest one is over on the third station, where there's one big warehouse packed full of people. Risky, in the Dead Territories, but people always got to let out their tensions somehow, and from what he's seen the Dead Territories folk are constantly wound tight like springs. He don't really blame them.

The music's hard and fast, deafening, the air thick with smoke and sweat and snatches of flavoured dust that Xigbar skirts around. The press of people is heavy, constantly moving, pulsing like one giant heartbeat, neon lights skimming over the crowd in streaks of blinding strobe.

But he still finds him. He knew he would.

Their eyes meet through the crowd, the kid's face caught tight in sharp blue light, and in the moment between one flashing strobe and the next, he's running. Xigbar follows.

A side door leads out of the warehouse and onto the streets. This many people on the station means the humid smog that normally hangs dank in all the stations has condensed and risen, drizzling the streets with recycled moisture. The kid's quick, but Xigbar knew he would be. He twists and turns like a fox, turning sharp corners and climbing a fence or two before Xigbar finally corners him. He grins then, wicked and bright in the dark, pulling out a blade or two from fuck-knows-where, and there's a quick clash and tumble where Xigbar's suddenly fighting _hard_ to keep his good eye. Then Demyx manages to land a hit, handle striking solid against Xigbar's temple, and that jolts him enough that the kid manages to slip past, running again.

And Xigbar, he's just had enough.

He pulls his pistol and fires off a shot over the kid's shoulder, nicking the skin of his neck slightly. The kid seems to have some seriously fucked up survival instincts, 'cause he doesn't even duck sideways or anything human nature might suggest in this situation, just freezes in place, completely stock still.

"I won't miss a second time, toots," Xigbar says, and Demyx don't even nod or anything, and maybe he actually remembers some of the shit from Xigbar's license, maybe that's why he knew it was safer to freeze than to carry on running.

The knives drop out of his hands, clattering on the wet pavement.

Xigbar kicks them away, grabs the back of Demyx's shirt and shoves him face first up against the nearest wall. He pats him down quickly, finding eight more knives and a nice sized bundle of what looks like high grade Vertex. He pockets it all and grabs the kid's shoulder, turning him around, back to the wall. His face is grim, wet and streaked with dirt and some glowing colours painted in elaborate patterns around his eyes and temples. He lifts his chin defiantly, but his eyes are more resigned than anything.

"Shoot me," he says. "I can't go to Gravedigger's. Just fuckin' shoot me, get it over with."

Xigbar sighs, but he doesn't lower the gun. The kid's too flighty to risk it. "I ain't gonna shoot you."

And then Demyx just kinda slumps against the wall, hands slack and head rolling back, staring up at the thick smog above them. Xigbar frowns.

"What were you thinking anyway, coming out here? Thought all your problems were gonna disappear the further you ran from 'em?"

The kid don't react, don't move. He blinks slowly. There's moisture clinging to his eyelashes, strands of his hair curving wet against the skin of his neck. "Your bounty's still up in midzone," Xigbar says. "And the longer you're running free the bigger it gets. An' the bigger it gets, the hungrier the wolf that's gonna come sniffing you down. You ain't got nowhere left to run, toots, 'less you wanna head into Flood space."

Demyx lets out a laugh, short and strained. "Grue would be better'n what those white freaks wanna do to me," he says.

"Yeah," Xigbar mutters. "Maybe."

The kid rolls his head forward at that, eyes sliding open and nailing Xigbar to the spot, blue and clear, bright like water. Xigbar finds himself leaning forward, nose pressing into the skin of Demyx's temple, gun still pushed up against the kid's chest. He smells of sweat and Vertex, bright chemical burn of the paint. And still, it hits him like a blow to the gut. "Fuck, I'm too old for this shit," he murmurs, lips brushing against the kid's cheekbone, and the kid's breath hitches slightly.

"You're not that old."

Xigbar laughs and leans back, pulls away. "Don't be trying to soften me up with compliments, toots," he says, grinning slightly. "I know what I am, nothing you got to say gonna change shit."

"Then what--" but it's been a long week, and Xigbar's tired of conversations not going his way, so he cuts him off.

"How you feel 'bout being rehabilitated, old fashioned style."

Demyx's eyes narrow. "There's no way the nebs will agree to that."

"I won't take it to them," Xigbar says. "They're just paying for your price, toots, they ain't the ones that say you gotta be taken outta the picture. An' I've got forty years of gov backed work behind me, plus a guilt trip or two," he gestures at his face.

But the kid just stares at him, looking slightly stunned, silent. So Xigbar carries on.

"We'd have to stay out here, mind," he says. "Less Nebari. We head back to midzone and they might try something sneaky, I've seen 'em do it before."

"Why? Why would you even be _botherin'_ with somethin' like that?"

"Well," Xigbar says, waving his free hand through the air a bit. "We'd have to carry on hunting, maybe do some gov work, and you're pretty handy with those knives, and I kinda wanna know how the fuck you got out of Crematoria that time, so."

"That ain't an answer," the kid says, starting to look annoyed, the gleam of hope in his eyes dimming as they narrow again. Xigbar grimaces, takes a breath, and damned if he can't seem to look away from the wall above the kid's shoulder as he talks, awkward like the teenager he can't really remember being.

"Okay, well, I guess you were right that time, see," he says. "And I figured you'd fucked it outta my system but I guess you just made it stick, and I know I'm old and I ain't never been pretty, even before the Grue ate my face, but problem is I am kinda sweet on you, an' I guess I just don't wanna see you come outta Gravedigger's with creepy zombie eyes, talking like one of them white fuckers."

He manages to look at the kid's face again to find his eyes are wide as fucking moons. "You--"

Xigbar swipes the gun sideways, glaring. "Don't you dare try an' make me repeat myself, toots."

Demyx's mouth snaps shut, and then he just stands there, staring. Xigbar shifts, glances away.

"This is a one time offer," he finally says. "You take it now or I'm walking away." He tugs a tracing brand out of his pocket, holds it up so Demyx can see. It's crude and gaudy, but Xigbar ain't stupid enough to carry around some of the more fancy options on his person.

The kid's still silent, but now he's looking at the tracing brand instead of Xigbar. Finally, he stretches his right arm out towards Xigbar, looking like maybe he's done this before.

Xigbar slowly reaches out, clips the brand closed around Demyx's wrist and slides it up 'til it fits snug, just above his elbow.

"This gonna sting," he says in warning, but Demyx still doesn't move, still staring at him. He hits the release on the brand and watches Demyx's arm jerk, his teeth grit, and then blood starts to run out slowly from where the brand's shot its spikes deep into his flesh, down to the bone. After a moment a little green light comes on, and Xigbar lets him go, stepping away and finally lowering his gun.

They stand there for a minute, silent. Then Demyx seems to come to a decision, pushing away from the wall, starting back the way they came.

"Where're you going?" Xigbar finds himself asking, just a little bit confused. Demyx stops, looks back at him over his shoulder.

"Back to the party," he says. "I was havin' a good time." But still, he stands there for a moment, looking at Xigbar, eyes unreadable.

He turns around. "You wanna come dance with me?" His head tilts to the side, the paint on his face catching the light.

Xigbar's gotta admit, he's pretty bewildered. But then, this kid's always throwing him for a loop, it seems. "I ain't much for dancing," he says, but Demyx is already walking up to him, close, hands sliding slow around his wrists.

"Can you hear the music?" he asks, quiet, head lowered. He takes the hand Xigbar's still got his gun in, slides it neatly back into the holster, fingers lingering on his stomach and thigh. Xigbar's been able to hear the music all along, even better now they're so strangely quiet, although, really, his heartbeat's pumping so hard in his ears it might as well be a bassline of it's own.

He wonders if being this close to the kid will always feel like a straight shot of stym.

He kind of hopes so.

"Yeah," he says. "I can hear it."

"Good," Demyx says, and then he's pressing Xigbar's hands firmly to his hips, sliding his own up around Xigbar's neck. He starts moving, slow deliberate sway of his hips, the beat seeming to slip right into him under Xigbar's hands. He presses his face to Xigbar's neck, breath clinging to his skin, and Xigbar finds his hands gripping a bit more tightly. "But you'd better never say any o' that self-deprecatin' shit again," Demyx mutters, right under Xigbar's ear. "'Cause pretty or not, I like your face just fine."

And Xigbar laughs, 'cause he don't really know how else to react to that, to the weight of Demyx's hands around his neck, his body sliding against his. Demyx pulls back enough to glare at him, rolls his hips forward more insistently and tugging until Xigbar gives in and starts moving with him.

But really, it don't end there, neither.


End file.
